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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25446907">B-side Blues [translation in Eng from Chinese]</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pj_1806/pseuds/pj_1806'>pj_1806</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, starrison&amp;Mclennon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:29:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,660</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25446907</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pj_1806/pseuds/pj_1806</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>original work by wolfskin199709 in Chinese: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16576385</p><p> </p><p>translation to english<br/>hope u enjoy:)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>B-side Blues [translation in Eng from Chinese]</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfskin199709/gifts">wolfskin199709</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/16576385">B-side Blues</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfskin199709/pseuds/wolfskin199709">wolfskin199709</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is NOT an original work!!!(repeat infinite times)<br/>only a translation of a absolute beautiful starrison fic by wolfskin199709</p><p> </p><p>the author never responded to my request to do a translation but I did it anyways, for more ppl can enjoy this lovely fic!!!</p><p>--pls forgive me for I'm so very deeply in love with it;)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John and Paul. Their first encounter can be memorized down to the very last note—well...not John, he has the same memory span as a goldfish. </p><p> </p><p>But there are those people who light up the whole room when they walk in, simply creating impressions by their presence, and which—one cannot easily forget.</p><p>He was sure that George Harrison, the handsome bastard, recalls absolutely nothing of their first encounter: what time, which day, what himself and he was wearing at the time...</p><p>He knows, deep down, he is just...Richard. Starkey. Ritchie, for close friends and family. An ordinary guy that needs an identity like ‘Ringo Starr’ to carry all those craziness of rock n’ roll, the weight of passion and broken hearts.</p><p> </p><p>He’s jealous of that, of John and Paul’s ‘iconic’ first-impression dug deep inside both of them. Because during those honest and quiet nights kept up by the prellies, he longs for George to remember their first meeting with each other. Pathetically hopeful, really. How can someone like George remember an ordinary chap with a silver streak on his side-burns, and who’s always havin’ stomachache? </p><p>George was the one with 2 brilliant friends by his sides, about to make miracles in the music world. If they’re ready to become famous, the Beatles, they’ll need to find a new bass player &amp; drummer fast. </p><p><br/>
All the same, he felt privileged to be in the company of such wonderful, radiant musicians. They’re very rare of their kind, having the chance to meet them was enough for Ringo. Anyhow, even if it sounds stupid, he knows exactly how they—Ringo Starr and George Harrison, met. </p><p><br/>
It was midnight, or slightly after, crowd at the Reeperbahn began to thin. Weather was gloomy, a few drops had began to fall. It reminded him of the drizzle back at the Liverpool bay, where the seagulls flapped around. Nostalgia seeped into his bones as he walked down the neon Hamburg streets, feeling the whole world crystallizing around him, turning into a delicate and far-away shade of existence he didn’t belong to.</p><p><br/>
Right that moment he passed a pub. Despite working in them all day, he felt drawn to that dark, dank, cramped up, warm little space—at least in that instant. He walked in, vaguely recalling the band on stage being from Liverpool, too.</p><p><br/>
That’s when he saw George for the first time, minus any dramatic pause in time, minus the fact that George doesn’t even make so-called ‘first-impression’s. In the weeping wee hours of dawn, George had got his black leather gear on, and himself the pink suit that went uniformed with the Hurricanes. He ordered a Sangria cocktail—a choice often deemed as unusual and feminine. The Sangria was blood red, ice dews clung to the wall of the glass, a tacky little toothpick umbrella perched in the liquid. </p><p><br/>
He drank absently, fishing out fruit cubes with the end of the umbrella, while thought whether he should’ve ordered fried oysters. The tune the band chose was slow and melancholic, something they played because they enjoyed, rather to please their audience.</p><p>But these tunes moved him. Because, God, how he loves these B-side blues. These ordinary, ‘second-best’, shunted to the B-side cuz’ they’re no better; these blues ain’t changing themselves up for nobody. </p><p> </p><p>“3.30 blues.”</p><p> </p><p>After the ending of a lengthy, moody song—which sounded more like a recreation to the band’s own pleasure than a performance—he shouted in the direction of the band:</p><p>“please!”</p><p><br/>
That precise moment was when he noticed George, a thin, black-haired guitarist. He played the solo softer than the main riff, his eyes down-cast as his fingers danced across the fret broad. The notes natural and scratchy, almost being thrown out unconsciously, careless.</p><p> </p><p>This guitarist was way too young to be here; Ringo thought, how does the lad makes sounds on the guitar like ones he’s never heard before? The stark contrast can be compared to a young lass with the tenderness of a flower, but her voice ripe and dark like that of Louise Armstrong; never scorched by love, yet hoped to sing of its sweetness.</p><p> </p><p>His guitar weeped out lingering pathos and unrestrained blues—like a heart-broken, wandering poet, or a lonely vagrant.</p><p> </p><p>When minutes took forever to pass—or no time has passed at all. </p><p> </p><p><br/>
—Play it again. he sipped the Sangria, and nodded towards the band on stage.</p><p> </p><p>From then on he frequented that Indra pub, and bit by bit, acquainted the band—the Beatles. Now he can tell the rest of the band members apart. It was hard at first, bit embarrassing, too, might be cuz’ of the unified Elvis hair-do.</p><p> </p><p>Paul was the one with the dainty brows, his voice can seamlessly switch between the softest dark velvet to churning lava. Out of all of them, Paul was the one <em>made</em> for carnivals; John was bat-shit crazy, he would yell at the crowd after downing copious amounts of alcohol, usually nutty things as— “Yer’ all blooody little Nazis!” Ringo admires his nerves, but secretly crossed out ‘drunk John’ if he ever needed company; Stuart was tall and pale as a ghost, likes to walk around with sunglasses on, few to none freckles scattered his cheeks.</p><p>He got to know Pete last, because somehow the other drummer was always absent. When Pete’s not there Paul would take over for him, further dulling the ‘Pete—drummer of Beatles’ impression for their audience. </p><p> </p><p>And Ringo finds that he somehow needed not to remember George. That guitarist, with thick eyebrows and defined cheeks, thin and slim. Shows off his little fangs when he smiles, measured warm sadness swam in dark-chocolate eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes when he’s early, he can see George leaning over the stage, barking out rude lines, the crowd yelled and screamed—“Mach Schau”. But George’s expression wasn’t crazy, or madly gleeful, he comes off as an ironic friar.</p><p> </p><p>“ e’s always like that, that guitarist.” Rory chuckled, when he brought up the subject, “doesn’t talk very much, eh? Shy with lasses, too. I bet e’s not of age, if I be honest with ye. Can’t believe Lennon actually smuggled ‘im ‘ere.”</p><p> </p><p>The hurricanes sat around on their bunks, someone perked up to what Rory said and responded, “ ‘xactly.”.Following that remark, somehow they all started to talk about the Beatles.</p><p>Miracles and magic, Ringo reminded himself, some people will capture others’ attention so profoundly, that they’ll still be remembered even if themselves has faded.</p><p> </p><p>“Poor fellas, what I’ve heard,” somebody in the corner said, sighing dramatically, “lives at the theatre next to the pub, shaves in the ladies’, can ye imagine! Sleeps with a huge flag, works night till dawn...But then again, which Liverpool band hadn’t start out like that?”  </p><p> </p><p><br/>
“Us.” Another voice chimed in. All of a sudden Ringo felt embarrassed, and slightly crossed at their conversation.</p><p>He thought his bandmates were alright lads, in general. But now they’re chatting like idiots. Everyone laughed, loudly exclaiming the luxury of the German sailors' hostel, having a bed <em>and</em> a carpet all to themselves.</p><p> </p><p>Ringo hugged his blanket tight and slipped down further in his bunk, tried to fall asleep while the others were still talking. He failed miserably.</p><p> </p><p>From then on, he would always bring some extra change with him when visiting Indra. Seeing the boys collect their tips from the bar, gave him a false pretense that he somehow made them happier by doing this.</p><p> </p><p>Because on some level, they all have the same understanding of money, the practicality of pounds and dimes; they can get you saugsages, condense milk and cans of orange juice, for instance, and how many meals for the family can be snatched by buying a guitar or bass. </p><p> </p><p><br/>
It’s not to say that anyone in Rory Storm and the Hurricanes knows what fresh tuna tastes like. Ringo just dislike the thought of judging a band based on their luck, it’s as unpleasant as societies defined by class.</p><p>Rather than pity, it’s more of an act done out of love &amp; respect, like bidding a stranger good day, or seeing cats huddled together for warmth in alleyways. Such love as to sweeten the bitter liquor that is life.</p><p> </p><p>Until at one of the Hurricane’s show, he never really tried to approach George.</p><p> </p><p>That night he cast a glance down the audience while behind his kit, and hit straight into a pair of dark eyes under thick brows—a friar’s gaze. </p><p><br/>
His left hand hitched, missed a beat. The rhythm guitarist shot him a questioning look, slightly irritated. But he quickly got it under control again, smoothing over Little Richard and pushed unto Elvis. Though the back of his thoughts more or less chased back to George, like a sheep heard being chased back to their fold on the dusky fields. </p><p> </p><p>George. Standing out from the crowd. George staring almost moodily at him, the stage reflected up-side down in his dark eyes. With hands down his pockets, George in his high-heeled boots.</p><p> </p><p>By the end of ‘That’s alright mama’, he shook sweat off his side-burns, the crowd erupted with cheers &amp; screams, he scanned the sea of noise, George was not there anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Much later, Ringo finally plucked up the courage to catch George dead-on after a performance, they were stunned into silence by unknown awkwardness. And Paul, who came along, broke the ice at last and ordered 3 beers on George’s name, told George simply to ‘enjoy himself’ and ‘good luck’, winked at Ringo, then mysteriously disappeared. </p><p> </p><p>They sat in total stillness inside a soundless bubble, two opened beers by their arms, the bar around them cranked up in volume. </p><p> </p><p>“Paul’s a bastard.” He heard George mumble, eyes flitting all over the place, focusing on everywhere that wasn’t him, “ e’s just damn rash...it’s not...e’ didn’t say ‘twas on me...”<br/>
“ s’ alright...s’ fine...” he answered, panicking all of a sudden, he reached out his hand but didn’t know where it should land, so he puts it down again, cursing inwardly at the idiot he had became infront of George.</p><p> </p><p>Damn that bloody softness he’s had it in for this lad.</p><p> </p><p>“ d’ye need me payin’ ? I don’t min...”</p><p><br/>
“No.” George cuts him off, blushed a little because he almost shouted out. Seeing the pink streak his cheek left Ringo feeling strangely drowsy.</p><p><br/>
“Nah...s’ on me, on me...”</p><p><br/>
A short pause.</p><p>Then: “ye’ve had us many times, after all.”</p><p><br/>
Ringo lifted his gaze in shock, staring at George. The latter was perched on the edge of his seat, gazing fixedly at Ringo’s shoe. Maybe someday he’ll create a new musical trend, called ‘Shoe-Gazin’ or somethin’, he thought to his own amusement.</p><p> </p><p>“ y’—oh.”</p><p><br/>
“Not that we kept all the money,” George said, twisting a hand down his coat pocket, as if trying to stretch a hole inside wider, “we gave some to the waiter, s’ tips, y’know. But we’re grateful. Really. Ta very much.”</p><p> </p><p><br/>
Ringo hummed, took a sip from his beer. Not cheap, this stuff. Paul might as well planned to skin George, three imported Mexican beer, with lime squeezed thick at the neck of the bottle, each sip wrapped in foams with a dash of sourness, exploding on his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“Then ya ‘ave a reason ter ask Paul for this, y’know, ‘cuz ye’re <em>all</em> grateful for me generous tip.” </p><p> </p><p>George’s gaze turned to him, and pierced right through his skull, “Nah,” he lowered his head, somewhat bashful, “this ‘un s’ on me.”</p><p> </p><p>And so it was. So was the next one. And the next.</p><p> </p><p>Somehow talking to George was easier than every conversation he’s had in his entire life so far; he has this...aura...like he’s glowin’ or somethin’, like the moon, a flower, or the starry night.</p><p> </p><p>He felt free and open, but all the same uncomfortable everywhere. A dull realization was tellin’ him this was one of the most important moment of his life. But the more he thought about it, the heavier he felt his tongue grew, laidened with lead. No right words came.</p><p> </p><p><br/>
So he gave up and shut his mouth in the end, chin resting on his palm, and just watched George rambled on excitedly.</p><p> </p><p>He never knew so much chatter was encased in the usual-brooding, silent young lad. From Buddy Holly to Raunchy, guitar chords in D minor to when he first met Paul—a funny lad giggling at his own reflection on the bus.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment Ringo wondered why he hasn’t met George earlier—to meet this lad who looks like a refugee even in his hometown—on the streets of Liverpool. He wondered if he had became his friend much sooner, would he be invited over to the Harrisons’? Would he also be fed full-to-burst with hand-made biscuits at tea time, and have his hair ruffled same as Louise to her youngest son? </p><p> </p><p>Then reality kicked in and he fell right back to the Hamburg pub, its weight sagging on his shoulders. He felt overwhelmingly sad for just a while, because in the short hours of getting to know him, he felt George Harrison unfit for Hamburg.</p><p> </p><p>He deserves better. So much better.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t tell George what he thought. Finally they shook hands and said friendly good-bys. Ringo gripped George’s hand tightly, when George slipped out his palm, he felt their respective calluses from their instruments brush against each other. </p><p> </p><p><br/>
That night he stumbled drunkenly back to their hotel, though not entirely caused by a few beers, and thought for the first time, the neon streets of Hamburg were at least a little bit romantic.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The second time he caught George, he burst out first: “ s’ on me today.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It slowly evolved into a tradition of theirs: while the Hurricanes finishes a show, and the Beatles are waiting for their turn to begin, he would buy George a drink, then they tuck together in a dark corner of the pub.</p><p>Sitting on tall-legged chairs, casually throwing pieces of their respective work-day around; Stuart and Astrid went out on a date again, John put a toilet seat around his neck while performing yesterday, Rory and the Hurricanes watched with joy &amp; fear as the German sailors whacked each other with folded chairs; banged beer bottles on their heads, roared like a beasts’s when foams dripped all around their cheeks...</p><p> </p><p>He found that George had an unbelievably sharp humor, when talking about Paul and John, his words were almost stone cold with indifference. But when a smile twist around that scorn, Ringo could feel the warmth of love seeping from his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>George had a strange mixture of these extreme personalities, it marveled Ringo deeply. He also had a very special crisp strait; if there’s somethin’ he’s not willing to do, he will not do it. Such characteristic can either annoy or impress people around him, Ringo thought.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>All these time spent together went on for couple of weeks without a hitch, until one day while he was walking out the Indra by himself, Paul caught up to him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I know what ye’re up to.” Paul cut straight to the point, with a steely grip on his arm, “don’ think ye can getaway with it.”</p><p> </p><p><br/>
Ringo freed himself from Paul’s grip with some effort, realizing the lad may have soft features, but hands strong and sure to bend metal strings all night. Paul stood there, expression tacit, the coolness there made Ringo’s heart sped up.</p><p> </p><p><br/>
“I don’ know what’yer on about.” He said, heart jumping so close to his throat.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Thump, thump, thump.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Paul smiled vaguely. “Ye don’ need me to explain it to ya, do ya? Or to force it out of ye out ‘ere?” And stared at him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo felt cold sweat beginning to slide down his back. It’s still late night, not much people were around the Reeperbahn.</p><p>But—Ringo suddenly realized, if anyone, <em>anyone</em> overheard their conversation, he would be in neck-deep trouble. </p><p> </p><p><br/>
“I knew ‘im when ‘e was 12.” Paul stuck both his hands down his leather pockets, still with that cool, indifferent expression, in that moment he scared Ringo, quite a lot.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m aware what people get close to ‘im for. The first time ‘e wanted to have a drink with ya, I helped, but now it looks like i didn’t push him towards a friend, but someone with guilt down his gut, y’know what i mean.”</p><p> </p><p>Ringo breathed deeply in, and suddenly felt like screamin’ his head off.</p><p><em>Yes</em>, he wanted to shout at Paul, <em>yesyesyes</em>, <em>every bit ya said was true but ye have no fuckin’ business inteferin’ so please fuckin’ get lost ye son of a...</em></p><p> </p><p>A part of him stirred at the idea, to wring Paul by his neck and bash his head in. But another part of him pinned him where he was.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Paul inhaled deeply as well, as if echoing his own breath; the stony expression slowing melting from his face—that coldness has etched itself on the back of Ringo’s eyelids, like bright light leaving black spots—and the lines of his features softened, turning into something more of a judgemental calmness, on the edge of danger.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“ y’know, the first time e’s saw ya drummin’, e’ didn’t shut up about ye.” Paul said at last, “ya better stay away from ‘im, cus’ if ye hurt him in any way, I can’t be sure if I can stop meself punching the life outta ya.” </p><p> </p><p><br/>
Ringo felt his mouth go dry. But he somehow managed to find his voice before Paul turned away from him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“ y’know, ye can’t say anythin’ ,” he blinked away the things in his eyes, “y’don know how it feels.”</p><p> </p><p><br/>
Paul froze for a second with his back to him, but he didn’t look around. “Then try ter put some distance between yeselves,” he said, emotionlessly, “for yer own good.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>But when George stood at the back of the crowd, looking at him silently with coals burning warm in his eyes, he invited him again for a drink, and a chat.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>One time, when he went to Kaiserkeller—the Beatles had made it to nicer pubs by then—Paul only gave him a meaningful look, and turned to have an unimportant argument with Pete.</p><p> </p><p>After sometime, when George brought up Paul and Ringo’s relationship, said: “i thought you two went along fine, why’s it tense all of a sudden?”</p><p> </p><p>He just smiled weakly and brushed it over with a denial—why’d ye say that? I don’ think so.</p><p>Paul seemed to accept it silently and backed away; Ringo didn’t know why, it wasn’t like Paul at all, who’s competitive about almost everything, even skills to chat up birds.</p><p> </p><p>Anyhow, Paul went from silent reproachfulness to kicking John on the shin when he complained about George’s early absence. Ringo thought it was almost as if Paul was letting them ‘get away’ with each other. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The most unbelievable time was when he ran into George one afternoon, and started to talk excitedly about the swans by the lake in Hamburg. Paul passed by, and then he—with questionable motives—told George he convinced the whole Beatles to let them believe that George somehow got a cold, and can’t perform that night.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
“Well,” Paul said to Ringo,—while George was screaming at him <em>“what’s ye bloody problem Paul”</em>—“ta for helpin’ me to convince John to change his god-awful guitar!” Paul winked at him, “enjoy the night-off fellas!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>That night he walked around the Reeperbahn with George, for a long while. With the Kaiserkeller as its center, the circle went bigger and bigger until they reached the banks and docks.</p><p>One side down the Reeperbahn were the museums, big patches of greens, a few churches dotted the greens, and an abandoned graveyard. The other side down took you straight to the river Ulster, and to the docks.</p><p>The setting sun threw dazzling colours and shades of light on the boats, George’s hair was fiery red at the stuck-up ends.</p><p>They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, watched the last fleck of sunlight drift from the waves, then strolled along the riverside, looking back at the neon igniting the Reeperbahn, two spectators.</p><p> </p><p><br/>
“Feels strange,” George said, kicking a beer cap on the sidewalk, “standin-g 'ere, lookin’ at tha' whole street, s’ like m’ an outsider.”</p><p> </p><p><br/>
Ringo hummed, staring in a trance at George’s profile, deep in thought. The colorful street lights reflected in his dark brown eyes.</p><p> </p><p>He looked melancholic, in that moment—On the fanciest street in St.Paul, the Reeperbahn.</p><p>He forgot who told him, but someone said that it translates as street of ropes, a name tied snuggly with the hooking industry: use lust to tie up the human heart, like a rope to tie up slaves.</p><p>He was clear with the ugliness and sad stories hid behind walls of illusion and blinding joy... Georges’s calm eyes held the desire to getaway with all that, and ironic sadness. Like a far-away being trapped in the material world. </p><p> </p><p><br/>
This, Ringo thought, this is the real George: not a single drop of alcohol in his system, without insanity that is the rock n’ roll lifestyle.</p><p> </p><p>He stood on the banks of the river, facing the facades of this world, wise as an old man, but with powerful youth &amp; vitality seeping off his bones. His spirit stood tall and proud like a silver birch.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” He answered.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George’s hand ghosted around his, and Ringo carefully put his hands in his coat pockets, making it seem a careless move, pushing down the tinge of regret rising up his throat.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Outsiders, like.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Later on he hanged out with Stuart for quite some time, due to a chance when George invited him over to Astrid’s house.</p><p>She was an unforgettable character, truly; Ringo remember her crisp handshake, her boyish, golden hair. She wore black turtle neck sweaters, stockings and leather boots.</p><p> </p><p>Her beauty was radiant, rhythmic.</p><p> </p><p>Undoubtedly attractive. Deadly, even. Ringo had to admit Astrid and Stuart were made for each other. </p><p> </p><p><br/>
He wondered to himself if the Beatles only hanged out with Astrid to use the shower at her house, it was an unfair thought, but wasn’t completely irrelevant.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“If ye saw wha’ happened, you wouldn’t say that,” George told him later. </p><p> </p><p><br/>
It was a Sunday afternoon, he only just got out of bed when Ringo came to find him.</p><p>George rolled his sleeves up lazily, splashing water over his sleep-ruffled features. “Stu an’ Astrid, they were love at first sight.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm,” he answered, leaning on the doorframe, feelings creeped in as he watched George’s movements, like rain drops falling slowly and wetting the ground inch by inch, somewhat intrusive on the other’s privacy.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Stu does seem like a ‘love at first sight’ kinda guy.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
George chuckled without chuckling. “Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The bathroom fell into silence. George picked up a towel, rinsed it with hot water and held it to his face; he signed, looked into Astrid’s cabinet, and took out a metal container.</p><p>For whatever reason, Astrid had a can of shaving cream, but not a safety razor with a replaceable blade; there was an old folded shaving blade infront of the mirror, he picked it up and tested the blade lightly with his thumb.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“ at’s all she has?” Ringo was surprised. And even more so that George seemed to know how to work it.</p><p>But it was probably all part of the poorer part of Liverpool’s boys’ growin’ up, seeing their da use the blade that was their da’s, hopin’ one day to learn how to shave like a real man do.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George growled a response from his foam-covered throat, his adams-apple rolled with the vibration. Ringo was suddenly reminded of the blade’s nick-name: throat-cutter.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Be careful.” He blurted out.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George’s eyes turned to him, his lips twitched into a smile, but didn’t respond with words. A moment passed when only the sound of the blade being passed across skin can be heard, along with the water running on and off.</p><p>George’s dark eyes met Ringo’s in the mirror, sending Ringo’s heart into a frenzied dance. He leaned into the doorframe, his full-on suit attire made a clear contrast with what George had on: his shirt was unbuttoned, the flannel fabric draped loosely on his shoulders, revealing smooth skin, collar bones jutting out.</p><p>Ringo’s gaze drew involuntarily onto creamy skins, down the clear lines of muscle on his forearm going under rolled-up sleeves. When he finally lifted his eyes, he found George’s fixed on him in the mirror; he sucked in a breath, pressed down the sudden hotness rushing through his lower abdomen, his mouth went dry.</p><p> </p><p>George lowered his gaze, rinsed his blade under the water to wash off foams. Then raised his head again, long neck exposed infront of the mirror, inching his blade towards his throat at a speed not too fast or slow. </p><p> </p><p><br/>
Not knowing why, Ringo walked into the bathroom, like walking into a forbiddden ground. Standing behind George, he saw two things: George was taller than him, and, George was no longer a boy...he’s maturing into a man.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>This is wrong, twisted, completely immoral, and filthy. But Ringo is unable to pull himself off this track with George as its center.</p><p>He stood behind George, knowing he could feel his body heat even with closed eyes. George opened them, touched his now-smooth neck, Ringo let go for just a moment and scraped off a bit of foam left forgotten behind his ear with his finger.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Under his fingertip he felt George’s skin temperature higher than his, that patch of soft skin cradled by bones behind his ear seemed to be slightly shivering. George let out a sigh, slowly blinking his eyes, and put down his blade with a clatter on the sink.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Tell me bit more ‘bout Stu, will ya?” Ringo said, shocked to hear his voice grew hoarse.</p><p>He stepped back, some unnamed air that vibrated between them earlier had stopped buzzing.</p><p>He felt he stepped away from dangerous waters, but has started to crave it with an itching desire. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When George spoke again his words sounded dry. “They met at Indra. An’ were like magnets, drawn together in an instant...Astrid’s not the pub type, even. Then y’know, she went along with us to Kaiserkeller, gave us bathrooms to wash in, took photos of us, n’ things.”</p><p> </p><p><br/>
“Doesn’t sound very ‘love-at-first-sight’ to me,” he joked, leaned back on the doorframe again, “not all romantic, like.”</p><p> </p><p><br/>
George plastered his face with a towel. “I didn’t fuckin’ wen’ through tha’, did i?” His voice muffled, “can’t describe word-for-word if i hadn’ done it, eh?”</p><p> </p><p><br/>
Ringo responded half-heartedly.</p><p> </p><p>Then he asked: “wanna go fer a drink then?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He and George never played any drinking games when they had beers together. He imagine playing pool with him. The image came fast, Ringo never knew his imagination can paint such many details: bright, colorful bulbs and music, George’s form splayed over the pool table, arms stretched, misted eyes trying to focus on the scattered balls, pink hues dotted his cheeks. George’s muscles move under his lose shirt with flexibly pulled-out lines.</p><p>He imagined stretching out his hand, dipping it between the natural depression at the small of his back, imagined George let him press his body up his back with surprise and quiet obedience—it’s because he’s in the bathroom that he’s starting to have these thoughts. He’s a fuckin’ pervert, Paul was right about everything—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>—<em>I didn’t fuckin’ wen’ through tha’, did i? Can’t describe word-for-word if i hadn’ done it, eh?</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo sighed, wanted to say something but George turned around, thoughtfully sank ten finger into his hair, and scratched at his head.</p><p>The movement made his open shirt rode few lengths up his chest, showing his slim waist and greater half of the chest, exposed in the air smelling faintly of soap and disinfectant fluid. Ringo gulped.</p><p>George just looked at him, and gave him a genuine smile.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“ alrigh’,” he answered, lowered his arms, impossibly looking younger than he was, “ s’ still early, maybe when we finish our walk, the pool hall will be empty, wanna play pool, tonight?” </p><p> </p><p><br/>
That night they played pool. That’s all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Because when they just finished the first beer, half way down to their second; Paul, John and Stu breezed in, glided to the bar after greeting them.</p><p>He sensed somethin’ was off then, but was worried that the other three might notice where his gaze were lingering a little too long. So he tried to focus on holing the red one. Way too into his pretence, that when he finally heard roars and screams coming from the bar, Paul and Stu were already twisted around each other, beating one another into the ground. Ringo jumped in shock, staring motionlessly as people pulled them apart. </p><p> </p><p>John was shouting venomously at Paul, the latter forcefully wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, a hint of hurt flashed across his face, laughed humorlessly, then dashed pass Ringo and out the door.</p><p> </p><p>He and George stood beside the pool table in silence, watching Stu turned to face John, angry and confused, said a few words. Then John stood up abruptly, chasing after Paul.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“ bleedin’ hell was tha’? “ He blurted out.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George signed. “<em>Them</em>.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He went quiet. “They always like this?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George looked at him, nodded. His mojito came on a plate, Ringo watched George took a large, irritated sip, and set the glass back on its coaster. Green mint leaves floated in opaque liquor, half translucent, ice cubes and sliced kumquat rose and fell with George idly poking the straw around. </p><p> </p><p>“They’re like bloody cats in heat, tangled-up with one n’ other, who the hell knows if the next second they’re gonna punch each other or be glued into hugs n’ like,” he said grudgingly, “then Stu came along. Paul’s <em>jealous</em>, for God’s sake! John <em>likes</em> to see Paul go all crazy for him— ‘e hangs with Stu so much on purpose to see Paul lose his marbles. ‘S like bein’ in a bleedin’ long soap opera all day in the band. Can’t take more of this shit, hell.” </p><p> </p><p>Ice swirled in his drink.</p><p>
  <em>Splash, slosh, glunk.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>George took a few deep breaths, swigged more mojito. Ringo observed him, slightly anxious; his side-profile slipped quietly into calm storminess.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Nothin’ ye can do, eh?” He said at last, sipping his whiskey. “Yer’ in Hamburg, 17— don’ look at me like that’, yer underage, —bein’ in a band who fights ev’ry now n’ then, not much other Liverpool bands needs a guitarist. Jus’ wait on it, anyhow, in the end, ‘least somethin’ will happen.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George snickered, but didn’t sneer his answer, “what’s this, wise old man? “</p><p> </p><p>He tried to shove George with his shoulder, and was dodged effortlessly. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Shuttup.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They fell into silence for a while, then George spoke; he didn’t look at Ringo, only pushed the ice cubes up his glass with the softened straw—with yellow and white stripes, the cubes repeatedly slid down the sides again and again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Ye think...m’ not sayin’ anythin’, but...d’ya feel...Paul and John, those two, ‘ave somethin’ goin’ on?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He felt his breath hitch.</p><p>
  <em>Splash, slosh, glunk.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He realized George has never, ever <em>dared</em> to ask John that question, not even Paul—who’s the older brother that always gave straight anwsers.</p><p>He’s known—<em>really</em> known George for a few months now, so he can fully comprehend the emotions George held behind the question: the anger that John &amp; Paul left him out of something; the sadness they’re not willing to explain to him—what is it all about; the doubt of not being trusted...but mostly just confusion. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George shrugged, whole back tensed, tender lines of powerful muscles stretched beneath that shirt. Ringo felt his mouth go dry.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When he answered, each word was deliberately filtered, the sentence shot past his lips moment they were out, bounced on the table, then vanished into thin air.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I think...ye already ‘ave a conclusion before ye think ter ask me.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George’s straw-poking paused for a bit. The ice under the straw lost its balance stand, slowly descended back down, to join its colony pile floating above the remaining liquor.</p><p> </p><p>After that the silence lasted long and loud.</p><p> </p><p>He lost track of time, the space they conversed in was stuffed with people—like sardines in a can, or behind prison bars. But, when everyone’s ears were full-to-brim with noises, they were free to cross over to untouchable grounds; that moment, he and George were partners in crime, planning a marvelous jump out of this suffocating bubble. His heart sped up.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Aye.” George answered, sitting up straight, pointedly not looking at him. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He gulped, suddenly the beat of his heart was so loud it was hard to bear.</p><p>He took a deep breath, slowly set his glass down. Can’t say he’s never seen it unfold this way...he remembered those boys with suggestive grins by the roadside, their plastic smiles, thought of the times when he heard soft moans of men, passing by alleyways after work.</p><p>But he also noticed the way Paul looked at John, saw the way John’s gaze followed Paul as he made his way to the bar. He made himself took several long, calming breath, forcing his mind to not get overwhelmed, but he felt his eyes go hot nonetheless. </p><p> </p><p>“God.” He heard himself mutter.</p><p> </p><p>George’s head is still lowered, he can’t make out his expression. “Yea,” he said dryly, “I thought so too. Nightmare, ain’it?”</p><p><br/>
 <br/>
He stared at the younger boy, unavoidably thought of Stuart, poor lad, squeezed in between those two, he must’ve picked something up, but still unable to escape being dangled like a bait by John, a cheap one to rile Paul’s jealousy and satisfy John’s cruel humor.</p><p>Countless reasons rushed like foams to his lips, they’ll drag the band down with them, what about their girlfriends, most deadly of all is this will have to stay a secret <em>forever</em>, it might not be such a big blow for Paul but it’ll murder John, they’ll end up in jail, wrong form the start—but none of these thoughts he dared told George.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“True,” he agreed, sadly reminding him of himself, “ ‘s a nightmare. Nothin’ ya can do... hell, nothin’ they can do...lovin’ somebody can be horrible, eh? Wha can ya  do? Jus’ go on, bein’ happy an’ desperate, till somethin’ ‘appens. ‘least somethin’ will happen.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>All around them, people were having the time of their lives. George didn’t speak for very long time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Seems like it’s yer motto.” George said, later.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After he bid George goodbye that night, he walked alone through the streets of Hamburg for a long, long time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Paul came back, just like all those other fights, shouting matches and heartbreaks they’ve had before.</p><p>Maybe not completely heartbroken, Ringo thought, but he was sad, Paul.</p><p>To be hundred-percent truthful, lots of things cleared up since he started seeing John and Paul’s relationship that way. The atmosphere between those Beatles... how can he put it, like a flammable gas valve has been turned on; the shows were as passionate as ever, more and more original blues were written.</p><p> </p><p>But between the few shows Ringo has gone to, John and Paul’s interaction lessened, even the way Pete smoked seemed...strange.</p><p>Sometimes, when Paul think no one’s looking, he would look at John in a way that makes Ringo avoid his gaze.</p><p> </p><p>He feel somewhat at a common cause with Paul; nah, more of a sympathetic lean. And so, he was startled when John plumped himself down beside Ringo one afternoon, beer in hand, he thought John could see his thoughts. </p><p> </p><p>Nevertheless it was an opportunity of sorts...he clinked glasses with John, half-heartedly mumbled good-luck for their upcoming show that night, John muttered back in the same manner. He made some rude jokes about the weather, then fell into an unnatural silence most unfit his personality.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It was only 2pm on a Wednesday afternoon, no one else were drinking at the Kaiserkeller.</p><p>The tall-legged chairs were still flipped up-side down on the tables. Ringo could see past the forest of chair-legs to the street scenes outside from their table.</p><p>No sound exchanged between the two men, and Ringo couldn’t find any way to break the ice. </p><p> </p><p>“ ‘s the matter?” He asked at last, no longer bearing the deadly air.</p><p>John sneered icily, clanged his glass against the bar; few drops spilled out and hit his face. John wiped them off messily with the back of his hand, then smiled like a shark.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Keep yer ‘uge bleedin’ nose ta yeself, Starkey.” he said viciously, “ ‘s none o’ ye damn business.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“None taken, Lennon,” Ringo replied cooly, knowing John’s threats never meant much, “whatever ‘business’ ye mean. Ya jus’ didn’ look so well. ‘M only concerned.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He looked straight into John’s eyes—sharp and cold with icicles—knowing if he backed down now, all would be for naught.</p><p>John exhaled a long sign, snatched his glass back up and gulped down most of the foam.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Nothin’ ye can help with,” he waved carelessly, “bunch of unimportant fuck-shit. The bastard’s stallin’ our checks again! Can ye bloody believe him?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo whistled, “what a pimp, eh?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>John nodded, looking scornful, “ ‘s cus’ we’re more popular; fare-fuck-thee-well! E’ suppose e’ can keep us ‘ere with money, away from toppin’ the goddamn charts; tha’ old fart’s got <em>dung</em> for brains. ‘M gonna go play at the hottest bar even if it takes me  bleedin’ pants ter do it. E’ can go an’ ‘ave shit for brekkie!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo stared at him, until John starts to squirm uncomfortably in his seat. “Ya worried ‘bout somethin’, “ he said calmly, “c’mon John, ‘m not an idiot. Whatcha thinkin’?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>John sighed, “‘s Stu.”</p><p>Ringo’s heart missed a beat, “what’s with ‘im?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He’s thought of many reactions, but John bursting into a fit definitely wasn’t one of them.“I knew it when ‘e ‘s gone off with that woman!” John shouted angrily, “who the fuck he think ‘e is—leavin’ the band whenever ‘e fancies—‘s like chicks comes first now! The bastard. Knew it from the start ‘is heart’s not in the game...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>John went off into his own rage against Stuart’s affair with Astrid, until Ringo cut him off again.</p><p> </p><p>“Y’know tha’ Paul would never give-up on the band, dont’cha?” He asked quietly, despite every muscle in his body going tense.</p><p>John froze in his seat, it almost looked comical; the air squeezed outta him like a balloon, drooped with the weight of sadness, and gave a moody nod.</p><p>Coming to his defeat—fact that Ringo knew more than he’d liked to let on about himself, was a surprise yet depressing. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo felt like laughing and going off on John all at once, he poured him some more beer, John watched gloomily as the golden liquid slipped into his cup. Relieved that he’s lucky enough to avoid a punch in the face.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Yea, yea, <em>ode</em> to tha’. ” John commented blankly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo was caught by surprise, “ye actually thought... tha’ Paul wouldn’t stay? Considered tha’ possible?” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Actually, I ‘<em>ave</em>,” John said impatiently, “what? I’ve thought about it when it hasn’t been the time of our lives! An’ there was the time when everybody thought we’re shit, ev’ry thing went borin’ as hell an’ i wanted a break...’s only recent we’ve picked-up some spirits again...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He started recklessly complaining everything about Hamburg, and what an arsehole Paul is bein’—it comes across as no news, really—if you hang with a person that talks about the same stuff each time you drink together, you’d get tired too.</p><p>Ringo waited patiently for it to past at first, but after five minutes that shouldn’t’ve been that long, he gave it second thoughts. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s a big risk. But the image of that early morning, on the empty streets of the Reeperbahn, Paul’s stiff figure turning into Indra, draped with tired loneliness, flooded his mind; along with it, George’s look of excitement when he turns to face him, can’t wait another second to walk the foreign lands with him, Paul’s wink of encouragement; he remembered the way Paul looked at John. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>That look he’s familiar with, because he himself has looked at George the same way...and in that moment he made a choice.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Y’know,” He caught the other man unaware, “Paul likes you too.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>...next thing he knew his nose caught fire, or just pain burning strong, he fell back in his chair. Ringo tired his best to protect his head, held the bridge of his nose and with a sour smile, looked up at John—who’s now on his feet, chest heaving up and down with flares in his eyes, fists clenched tight.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Please, John,” he closed his eyes, felt acid running around inside his nose, “ya don’ need ta punch me just because ‘m tellin’ ye the truth. Really, ya don’ ‘ave ter.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>John heaved himself back down in his seat, still gripping his fists tightly.</p><p>Ringo struggled to stand, it was difficult to pull up his fallen chair while held his face up to stop the bleeding.</p><p>He did it in the end, sat down, nodded and took the tissue John passed silently his way. Wiped his finger clean, then scruffily stuffed his nose with it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“How long d’ y’know?” John asked quietly when he flipped the tissue to soak in the blood on the other side.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo turned to look at him with some difficulty, his face seemed more fragile and exposed than he expected.</p><p>“Tell ye the truth?” He asked, John nodded, “well I guessed it when I’ve seen ya two the second, or the third time.” </p><p> </p><p>John did a shaky laugh, “we that obvious?”</p><p> </p><p>Ringo sighed, feeling a twinge of exasperation for the absurdity of the whole situation. “<em>C’mon</em>, Lennon!”</p><p> </p><p>A short pause.</p><p> </p><p>“Y’know,” he contemplated the next sentence on his tongue, “didn’t want ta poke me nose around in yer business, but as yer mate, I want ter save ya sorry arse, honest.”</p><p> </p><p><br/>
He took a deep breath, “after we’ve done ‘ere, ye go out this door; turn right at the end of this road ‘s a park, next ter a church, a lass sells flowers by tha’ church. Ya buy the nicest-looking bundle ye find—"</p><p> </p><p>“An’ I ‘ave to do this right when we’re done?” John cuts him off, white as a sheet.</p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely. Otherwise ye don’ ‘ave the guts,” Ringo addressed him steady with indifference, “what was me on? Aye, ya buy those flowers, the prettiest red rose bunch, ones tha’ bloom blood-red even in winter. Then ya take it to Paul’s bedside, if ye walk fast enough ‘e’ll still be sleepin’; walk ter ‘is bedside, when ‘e wakes up, get on one knee and put the flowers by yer feet—“</p><p> </p><p>“Ringo—what in fuck’s name? What’s this bullcrap?”</p><p> </p><p>“—mind ya keep it lookin’ nice, don’ pile the flowers or they go limp. An’ after all that ya look up at ‘im, under yer lashes, an’ say—“</p><p> </p><p>“RINGO!” John raised his voice, standing up, “wha—the hell yer on about?! Why ye keep goin’ off about...those— ‘s not a bloody proposal for fuck’s sake!” </p><p> </p><p>“But this way ye—y’ll be happy. Together.” He said with all the determination he could muster, and stood up as well. Don’t know why, and not caring, he felt his eyes water. “ ‘Least much happier than now...”</p><p> </p><p>They fell into silence once again. John looked away, wiping his eyes on his sleeves.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Then tell ‘im ya love ‘im,” Ringo said gently, “‘f ya think it’ll scare ‘im off then use a word less heavier; like ‘like’, or ‘have feelings’, whatever works, y’know. When it’s done take ‘im on a trip: dunno where fits yer fancy but north of Scotland’s not a bad place to be. If ya can afford it, take a car to Spain even. I’ve heard it’s a fab ground for rock n’ roll folks; Spanish guitars, bull-fights, flamingos n’ whatnot. ‘Least somethin’ will happen.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Can’t be nothin’ good.” John muttered, turning to face him again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo smiled, sincerely this time, “well, who the bloody hell knows?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Jesus Christ,” John sighed, stretched his hand out to Ringo, “didn’t think ‘m gonna be educated in me love life when we first met—“ he scrunched up his face, “—whatever the hell that means now...anyroad, thanks mate.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo caught his hand. John casually patted him on the shoulders, hopped off his chair hastily, stepping towards the door.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, ‘nother thing Rings,” He yelled at the top of his lungs back at Ringo, “this I’ve held off fer too long: y’know, he likes ya too!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He almost fell off his chair the second time in an hour. John’s outrageous laugh bounced itself off the walls, Ringo buried his burning cheeks in his hands, feeling his nose might bleed all over again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
But he never got the chance to ask John if he had done exactly as his hot-headed plan.</p><p>A night not long after that, when he was looking for the Beatles gang, George rushed into the “Top Ten” pub, looking upset and angry that he could hardly contain himself.</p><p>Right as Ringo opened his mouth to ask, George grabbed hold of his arm, the power of his grip startled him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“ ‘s the matter?” He asked, dazed while George dragged him along, the lines on his face hard.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Outside.” He replied simply.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They walked in silence for a long long time. George seemed like he was determined to not talk; anger radiated off him while he stride up front, up-rooted every pebble he’s seen by the road side.</p><p> </p><p>Ringo followed him, confused and have no idea what’s going on. They arrive by the banks of lake Ulster, where the boats were docked, the two continued down the river, Hamburg lights flooded the water surface and the Reeperbahn twinkled in the distance.</p><p> </p><p>By now George slowed his pace; he walked to the river, arms held in front of his chest, peeled off his boots, rolled up his trousers, and sat down slowly on the bank, putting his feet in the water of Ulster.</p><p>Ringo did the same, and the water covered his ankles gently, making him shiver with cold.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“What is it?” He asked.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George didn’t utter a word, instead aimed kicks at the water. He looked painfully young, and Ringo’s heart jerked violently.</p><p>With the light-headedness his heartbeat brought, he set his hand down on top of George’s next to him; George didn’t draw away. The lines on his shoulders started to relax a little. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“ ‘m sorry to ‘ave taken ye out so far.” He said finally.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“ ‘s alrigh’. ” he answered. He don’t know what to say, but it seemed enough for George.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“ ‘m angry,” he said at last, shrugging, the movement surprisingly childish, “but when it’s all over...then I reckon, it is just fate.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo felt his windpipe being squeezed, like an invisible hand is there, crushing it.</p><p>“What exactly happened? Found yer ‘Astrid’?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George huffed, “what were ya thinkin’? I—“ he paused, and when he moved his lips to answer again, his voice was much calmer, “I’m leavin’ soon.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo’s fingers twitched, he was sure George felt it too, “leave? Leavin’ where? Did the Beatles—“</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Nah, nothin’ with the lads, ‘s me.” George said, shrugged again, “German police found out about me age y’see. Blown me bloody covers now, right when we jus’ started at the ‘Top Ten’ too...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ringo’s sense disappeared momentarily. He was stripped clean of words to comfort;  a fog of deep consusion follows after the empty emotions, how could this be?</p><p>How could this, this ridiculous, senseless thing ever happen to George? A young boy with the spirit of a silver birch will be deported on a ship back to England. His band will lose a brilliant guitarist, and he will lose a job. George’s dark eyes stared into the harbor, deeply resentful of Germany’s <em>stupid</em> system.</p><p>And he, Ringo Starr, would have to get used to a Hamburg much colder without George in it. </p><p>The summer was coming to an end; the Hurricanes’ contract covered them till the end of the year, meaning he would have to endure a lonely Christmas.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>What shocks him so much, was that he didn’t realize that he had unconsciously adopted John, Paul, Stu and Astrid, Claus Voorman and Yorgen...as his family.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry to heat tha’. “ He said to George, the latter nodded, and gave a cold smile.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“ ‘s outrageous, i mean, what arsehole country cares about curfews, eh? ‘S inhuman tha’ is. What kind of idiot gave the authority that what time ye should go out and be back inside yer door?” George said, his smile turned sharp and leery. “Point is, once these knuckleheads realize that none of us ‘ave work permits or...hell, a bloody visa, ha! No one gets away from this shit hole then.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“What are ya goin’ ter do then?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The question slipped past his lips like water, before he can slurp it back in, George’s face darkened. “Honest, if i go solo without a band...” he licked his lips, the tip of his tongue flashed silver in the night, “well...I’ll make a lot less than i do now, that’s for sure.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He laughed out of surprise,”first thing ya think about ‘s the money?” Ringo asked, unbelievably.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George looked at him dryly.</p><p>“money.” He said seriously, “ ‘m the only one workin’ in my family, Ringo. Then maybe find meself ‘nother band...John and Paul, they’ll like to murder me...that way, ‘m startin all over ‘gain, dunno if there’ll be another chance like this, like Hamburg. But if i be honest, the Beatles are...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He stretched out his other hand, turned around, and made a gesture at Ringo.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Y’know, ‘s like it’s in yer blood; no matter what ya do, it’s there. Then ya realize nothin’ can be as half good as tha’. Ye understand, right?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The truth is, he doesn’t. The closer he got with the Beatles, the more he found the Hurricanes less insipid, or at least less lovable, than the Beatles; how could he know what it’s like to be in a band like this? Apart from all the tangled love affairs in the Beatles, they were sincere, warm enough, and trusting enough that Ringo felt he was their brother when they’re together. He truly cherished that.</p><p>A cold breeze whizzed by, George shivered and snuggled closer to Ringo.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Ringo said. He seemed to have temporarily lost the ability of speech.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“But sometimes, when I’m in the band, it feels like...” George stopped to assemble his words, his bushy eyebrows scrunched up, “y’know, those two! God forbid! They should jus’ re-name it—<em>John Lennon and Paul McCartney’s dogshit fairy band</em>...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Aye.” He answered.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Now that I remember, i really dunno what’s the matter with them...i even miss the times when they jus’ wanted ter pull each other’s head off, rather than now, they’re <em>glued</em> together all the time! Don’ they realize how serious it could be? What if something happens...”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh God stop sayin’ that!”</p><p> </p><p>He gave a shudder of surprise and nearly jumped. Just teetering on the bank of the river before George caught him by the upper arm and pulled him back.</p><p>Ringo turned his head and was startled by the look on George’s face: he could see only half of George’s face in the dim skylight, the half not in the shadows went through indescribable waves of subtle emotions, but eventually returned to a sort of opened knot.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“ ‘m leavin’ Hamburg now, dunno when I’ll come back,” he spits out his sentences quickly, “Liverpool’s big enough for me to not ever meet ya ‘gain...prob’ly ye won’ even remember what i look like. I—“</p><p> </p><p>He shut his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>And Ringo felt as if someone was holding a ladle and <em>thumping</em> it through his stomach. He suddenly remembered John and Paul, the way they can describe the first time they ever met each other perfectly, and knew every detail; it never happened to him...but maybe...just maybe, even without Stu’s magnetic encounter with Astrid, he’s still the one George <em>chooses</em> to remember? </p><p> </p><p>He looked into the other boy’s uneasy, handsome face, and thought of him playing pool under the dim lights, his body stretching out beautifully under his shirt; thought of him drinking cold Mojito, yellow-and-white straw spinning through the green mint leaves; remembered him shaving ‘front of Astrid’s mirror, his own finger behind his ear; many weeks before he had been standing exactly where they’re sitting now, looking into the distance at the Reeperbahn, with something bright in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George’s feet slid in the water, towards him, his frozen toes touching Ringo’s ankle. Ringo went into a trance back to that morning before dawn, drowsy in that nostalgic feeling, he’s had on Hurricane’s pink suit, and George in his leather gear, blood-red sangria’s glass draped with frost, 3.30 blues echoed around the empty bar.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>How he loved those B-side blues, those ordinary, <em>second-best</em> blues shunted to the B-side.They’d change their beauty for no one. It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it.</p><p>But that moment when the emotions got to his head, he thought, he felt, maybe, <em>maybe</em>, he was the same kind of blues in George’s eyes: the unlikely drinking mate crouched in his corner of loneliness.</p><p>But he was far from it. He was sure.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>His head sprinted past a million thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>George’s fingers closed in a fist under his palm, and Ringo held his wrist. George signed, wanting to say something.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Don’ ye wanna...”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s not late. Ringo thought, and closed their distance.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He had never kissed a man before. And not often did he kiss women. So the kiss was inevitably messy. In that instant his senses touched these things: George’s lips parted in surprise, the dry, cracked skin on his lips, barely shaved stubble, the unmistakable masculine smell—mixture of sweat, cigarettes, alcohol and peppermint aftershave, something that made his heart beat faster without words... But it’s not enough, far from enough.</p><p>He unconsciously held out his hand, and George stepped forward eagerly, his chest pressed to his palm, and the hand caught slipped under his shirt.</p><p>With a splash, George’s leg pushed hard between his knees, his whole body pressed up, and Ringo grabbed him around the waist and twisted him around, closed his eyes.</p><p>He didn’t imagine himself to usually be the aggressive one—mostly because he doesn’t have the guts—but the angle they were at, it was too easy to pry open George’s lips and teeth, rushing straight in.</p><p>George moaned under his mouth, his hand grabbed a fistful of Ringo’s shirt from the back, he tongue invaded his mouth passionately, pressed against his upper palate, but stopping as if unsure what to do next.</p><p>Ringo opened his eyes slightly and found George looking at him; the sight made his breath quiver, George closed his eyes with a look of intense concentration, like Ringo were some extremely difficult guitar riff.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Jesus Christ above.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When they parted, he and George gasped like two wolves on a long run. George’s hair was a terrible mess. Panting heavily, he ran his hands through it, his tongue still wetting his lips. </p><p> </p><p>Ringo gulped and looked away awkwardly, but George’s laughter pulled him back. The laugh was quiet but free, echoing along the sparks on the water, and he found himself laughing with him. They stared at each other, the laughter faded, but their faces drew closer to each other.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“What were ye gonna say?” After god-knows-how-many-kisses, Ringo asked him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>At first, George doesn’t say any thing back.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Nothin’, “ after a while he said quietly, “sweet sticky stuff.”</p><p> </p><p>He wanted to say that it didn’t matter what you said, but it died in his throat.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Early that morning, as they parted at the corner of the Reeperbahn, Ringo watched George walk briskly away, and turned towards the hotel where he was staying—the German seamen’s society hostel.</p><p>The Hamburg neon lights were beautiful, he thought, and laughed till he teared up in the dark streets.</p><p>God, he was a hopeless romantic; or perhaps it’s impossible fro anyone to <em>not</em> be romantic when it’s George Harrison—he’s like the moon, the flowers, and the eternal stars in the sky, sharp and gentle, determined but cool, with boyish cheeks and a guitar that weeps unrestrained melancholy tunes.</p><p>Like a wandering poet who lost his lover, or a lonely vagrant. He may not have tasted love’s bitterness: what it was to be a magnet and finally finding the opposite pole. It would come eventually, only in each person’s relative speed, and it would be just as hard to refuse.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Fuck’s sake ‘m writing poems for him now. Ringo thought, dizzy with happiness.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Under the effect of the mist in his eyes and alcohol in his blood, he looked ahead.</p><p>The hazy fog brought by Hamburg’s dawn began ro thin, enveloping him tenderly, creating a halo around him. Like a strawberry in a long champagne glass.</p><p>He made his way to the crowded hotel room, each step like a bubble made of cotton candy and soapy water.</p><p>Deep deep deepest down, he still knew that he really was just...Richard. Starkey. Ritchie for close friends. An ordinary man who still needs an identity like 'Ringo Starr' to carry the madness, passion and heartbreaks of rock n’ roll. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>But he was confident that one day they would succeed. They'll fucking <em>shake</em> the world with their music, climb the heights of popularity, and fly through the goddamn <em>universe</em>; They would leave this place because Hamburg was tiny, it didn't fit in with George Harrison. He deserves a better place.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He deserves a better place. They all do.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>John, Paul, George and Ringo. He believes it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>all credit to wolfskin199709</p><p>:D</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
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